Healing Hearts
by Wolfy McBubblehorn
Summary: Kink meme fill: Bofur has admired Fili and Kili from afar but never done anything about his feelings until they come to him. Then the battle of five armies comes and Bofur can no longer feel at home in Erebor, so he leaves and seeks the good company of our very own Bilbo Baggins.
1. Chapter 1

Hello All! Okay, this is a fill for the kink meme over on livejournal, thank you for that, it was so much fun to write. :D

Here is the prompt link: . ?thread=840390#t840390

Now, okay, for some reason my computer is refusing to let me indent, and I am sorry for any mistakes. :P

This is my first Hobbit fic, please go easy on me, but do review, that'd be lovely.

Thanks for stopping by!

Disclaimer: I do not own anything from J.R.R. Tolkien's universe, I just screw around with stuff. Please don't sue…

Healing Hearts

Bofur lifted the old hat out of its place deep in the closet with shaking hands. He'd not worn the thing in years, and he had to blow dust off the top and sides to even see the color.  
There were many memories with that old hat. Painful memories. He sat down heavily on his bed in the dark next to his travel pack, just rolling the hat's fabric between his fingers. His breath quaked, and Bofur had to squeeze his eyes closed against the tears. He promised himself he'd never cry over this. Over them.  
He squeezed the worn leather and wool in his hands, taking comfort in it's warmth as he was lost to memories.

It was June in a merrier time in their quest where more of them ate, more of them talked, and it was easier to laugh. At least, for most of them it was.  
Bofur was a happy, bright soul on the worst of days, and on the good ones like these, not a thing could bring him down.  
But for some reason on some days he was not happy.  
It wasn't visible to the naked eye of just anybody, but his brothers could see it. When he thought no one was watching, the smile would slip off his face like an old mask, and he would sigh.  
But his cousin knew.  
On this particular day, Bofur was in the back, so he was free to look and do as he pleased without the fear of being noticed, so his smile was gone in place of a sad scowl, with eyes that didn't dare follow the ones he yearned to see, but sought peace instead in the trees and the sky.  
Bifur rode up beside him, and scowled at him accusingly with bushy eyebrows low over his eyes.  
"What do you want from me, cousin." Bofur grumbled uncomfortably after a while, when Bifur's staring did not cease.  
"Amin kazkon hum bartamun densekuz!" Bifur said in his loud, gravelly voice.  
Bofur raised an eyebrow at him. "Pining, am I now?" He asked, mocking thoughtfulness, and his cousin nodded gruffly, pointing ahead to the front of the group where two brothers rode.  
Bofur slapped Bifur's arm away and gave him a rude gesture, ignoring his cousin's smug look.  
Bofur scowled. "Don't look at me like that. So what? Nothing's changed, and nothin' will."  
At this, Bifur snorts and rolls his eyes, earning a smack from his younger cousin. "Don't you go scoffin' at me, cousin. Not after the sad months you spent watching that tavern lass back in the Blue mountains."  
Bifur's returning rude gesture made Bofur chuckle a bit, and he stopped frowning, but then he looked ahead to see Fili horseplaying with his brother, and his spirits sunk again, his heart stuttering at their laughter and plummeting to the fact that he never caused that laughter.  
He ducked his head, trying not to meet Bifur's gaze, and rode ahead so he wouldn't have to face his cousin.  
At the head of the group, Fili watched the exchange intently, only just noticing something amiss, and he gestured quietly to his brother before looking back at the old dwarf, who was now gazing up at the trees above.

It was Bofur's turn to take watch the night his pining ended, and he sat on the cliff's edge and swung his feet, just watching the night go by. It was a rather lovely night, with the breeze blowing just enough to cool a body down, and the air was sweet.  
He took a deep breath, just taking in the night, and tried to concentrate. Often when it was his turn to watch, he would find himself daydreaming or lost thought. Not always good thought. More often than not he found himself thinking of the two lads he denied himself, and that made him sad.  
He tried to concentrate, he really did. But tonight...  
Without warning a hand slipped over his mouth, cutting his morose pining short.  
Poor Bofur was not expecting this or anything of the like, so he gave a muffled shout and reached for his mattock, but a familiar hand restrained him.  
His eyes widened when some stubble and blonde hair came into view, and a husky voice whispered in his ear:  
"Now Bofur, you've never been one for pining."  
He was about to protest when another voice like honey whispered in his other:  
"As lovely as your face is when you do it, we've decided to put you out of your misery."  
"And put yours in with ours." Finished Fili, and as the two dragged him off, Bofur gave a sigh of absolute relief as the world lifted off his shoulders.  
The following night was probably the best of his life, and there were several more after that that made his top ten.  
They were a team of three now, and Bofur couldn't have been more content in all the world.  
But it was never destined to last.

The rain poured after the battle of five armies, and Bofur was drenched and aching and bleeding from a bad gash on his cheek, but he couldn't rest. He couldn't. Not yet.  
"Fili!" He yelled, at the top of his lungs, and waited only a moment before calling "Kili!"  
He stood still for a long moment then, listening for any answer, praying his lovers were alright.  
There was no answer, and Bofur tugged frustratedly on his braids. They had to be alright. They had to be.  
He wandered the empty battlefield for a while, calling their names again and again, receiving no answer, and getting increasingly agitated.  
All of a sudden, he stopped. Everything stopped. Bofur could hear nothing but the blood rushing in his ears, and he could feel nothing but the pounding of his heart.  
And he could see nothing but the cold dead corpses of his only loves lying in the empty field.  
He stumbled forward, forcing one foot in front of the other, until he found himself standing in front of Fili's broken body, his brother at his side.  
The rain blinded his eyes, but he was sure their fingers still touched.  
It was the scene that broke him.

Bofur shook himself violently, and abruptly stood. He placed the old hat on the bed and paced for a moment around the room, refusing another thought on the matter. He promised himself he would not cry. He leaned his forehead on the wall and closed his eyes, breathing deeply.  
Bofur was alright. He was Bofur. He was always alright.  
But he still had to leave.  
Erebor wasn't his home anymore. He couldn't bare to stay, even in the place he fought to save, where everywhere he turned reminded him of the ones he lost.  
It hurt, and all he wanted to do was break the nearest object, then curl up in his room and cry until he had no more tears, and then run until he was far away from that awful place.  
He would never allow the first two, for he was Bofur, and he was always alright.  
The last though, was the least he could do for himself and his battered heart.  
He walked back to his bed and wrapped his pack securely about his shoulders, gave a final nod, and made himself smile.  
Then he picked up the hat. He turned to the mirror on the far side of the room with the thing in his hands, and he put it firmly on his head, turning the flaps upside down like he did in his travel days.  
A real smile flickered across his face, and he felt just a bit better, if only for a moment.  
He turned away, towards his open door, and his journey began.  
He walked down to the end of the hall where he and his brothers stayed, and paused at the door for just a moment.  
He turned back, and saw his brother in front of his room. Dear old Bifur. Bofur smiled wearily and nodded to him. He knew the old dwarf would understand.  
And of course, he did. He nodded back to him and turned round, retreating to his rooms again. Bofur was left alone.  
So he left. With not even the knowledge of where he was bound.  
The mountain was tall and dark that night, with little beams of golden red gleaming through the little windows and cracks in the gate.  
Looking back on it, a song sprang to Bofur's mind. A song he hadn't heard or sung in nearly three years.  
And suddenly he knew where he was going to go, and he hummed, deep in his throat, as he walked the familiar road before him.  
"Far over the misty mountains cold  
To dungeons deep and caverns old  
We must away ere break of day to find our long forgotten gold."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Bofur didn't sleep much on the road in the first place, but alone, in the wild, with nothing but his mattock to defend himself, he got almost no sleep at all.  
It was about four in the morning when he gave up on trying at all for the night and moved on.  
He rubbed at his eyes and yawned as he walked, the sun just barely peeking over the horizon, and most of the world still bathed in a hazy blue.  
Bofur didn't know where he was exactly, maybe somewhere between the Misty Mountains and Rivendell, if he hadn't already passed the hidden valley by (which was entirely likely) he just knew he was going east.  
He would probably ask somebody in the next town where the bloody hell he was...  
He stopped at mid day for a short rest and some lunch. After your last journey involved fourteen other blokes, you really come to appreciate not having to share your food and space with said other fifteen blokes, and Bofur really did.  
You do come to miss the company after awhile though. Bofur sniffed and looked around his makeshift campsite sadly. He didn't have to smile and hide his emotions here because there was no one to hide them from.  
There was also no one to save him from his own mind either, and he soon found himself thinking morose thoughts of his lost loves.  
He was pulled quite suddenly out of his thoughts by a bird erupting from a bush. He shook himself, mentally giving himself a kick in the arse for indulging such thoughts.  
He dug his palms into his eyes, sucking in a deep breath of air, and letting it out slowly before forcing himself up.  
He swore to himself he would not cry.  
Swinging his mattock back to its place on his breast and heaving his pack up on his shoulders, he stamped out his fire and carried on, humming an old dwarfish tune with a smile.  
For he was Bofur, and he was fine.

It was late at night sometime in late autumn when Bofur finally arrived in the Shire. He didn't remember exactly how to get to Bag End, so he had to ask for directions a few times along the way. This didn't bother him, and was frankly amusing, the way the little folk regarded him, but his journey had been long, and he was weary.  
Finally, after long hours of wandering through the green land (much like he had the last time he was there for the party), he found a familiar hill, and made for it.  
He stopped at the front door and paused, just looking around for old times sake.  
The place hadn't changed at all. Bofur chuckled a little, not surprised, and knocked on the door.  
It took a few minutes, the hobbit was probably putting on the kettle or putting away the shiny things just in case, but Bofur didn't mind. It was cool and a slight breeze blew pleasantly at his back. It was a very nice evening for beginnings.  
The door opened slowly, and Bofur gave the man inside a sweeping bow. "Bofur," he said with a dashing smile and a wink. "At your service."  
He straightened up and laughed a little at his friend's slack jawed gape, and he swept his arms out in a 'well, I'm here' gesture.  
This brought Bilbo back to his senses like a slap to the face, and he lurched forward to wrap his old friend in a hug, which he returned happily, glad to be welcomed back with his friend.  
"Bofur!" Crowed Bilbo merrily, drawing back to inspect him. "You look like you haven't seen descent food or sleep in quite a long time."  
"I haven't lad." He said, clapping Bilbo on the back as he lead him inside. "Just came from Erebor."  
Bilbo looked at him as if he was mad. "Well, come in! Have something to eat, make yourself at home! I've just put the kettle on, some tea should be ready soon."  
"Ah, that sounds lovely." Bofur agreed as he sat down in Bilbo's parlor. He took his hat off and leaned back into the cushions, tireder than tired. He'd come such a long way.  
He cracked one eye open as Bilbo sat down across from him, and Bilbo scoot a cup of hot tea in front of him. He took it gratefully.  
"So what happened at Erebor?"  
Bofur opened his eyes wearily and leaned forward. He didn't want to talk about Erebor. "Oh nothin' really. We rebuilt the old city, cleaned out the dragon poo, and made Erebor great again."  
Bilbo looked confused, and Bofur drank his tea so he wouldn't have to talk of that place.  
Finally Bilbo pipes up. "So Erebor is great again...so why are you here? If you don't mind my asking."  
Bofur sighed internally. Well, it was inevitable.  
"I couldn't stay in that horrible place, lad."  
"...But Erebor was retaken. It was saved."  
"Aye, lad, it was saved. But not for me. I couldn't stay. I couldn't ever feel at home in the place where my lads...where my king fell."  
Bilbo nodded, but didn't go on. He knew what Bofur meant. Instead, he cleared his throat and asked an entirely different question, for which Bofur was grateful.  
"So where will you go?"  
Bofur pursed his lips and looked at Bilbo hesitantly, without answer.  
Bilbo nodded, the idea in Bofur's mind dawning on him, and he stood up and patted his friend's hand.  
"Your welcome to stay here as long as you like Bofur. I'm happy to have you as long as you stay."  
Bofur closed his eyes and leaned back in relief. "Thank you laddie." He said, his voice thick.  
"Any time you need."

Bilbo padded into his dining room on silent feet about a week later to find Bofur already up. He was sitting and looking out the window at the sky, with a wistful look on his face that made Bilbo's heart ache.  
It was so wrong. Bofur was never, ever, melancholy or sad and thoughtful. Never. He was a lighthearted fellow who loved to smile and laugh and make merry, no matter the circumstance. He was a bright light in the darkest of places, when everything else was in gloom.  
Now it was rare to see him smile, and when he did, it did not reach his eyes. It made Bilbo sick. And it killed him that he could not pull him out, for grief can hardly be rescued from.  
So he did the best he could. "Good Morning, Bofur!" He said cheerily, and the poor lad jumped terribly, a smile forcing its way into his face in some attempt to be bright, even if only for the hobbit's sake.  
"Ah, good morning Bilbo! Hope my blundering about didn't wake you."  
Bilbo waved his hand dismissively on the way to the kitchen, and just caught a glimpse of Bofur sending one more melancholy glance out the window before going to put his kettle on. A hot mug of tea might do his broken heart some good.  
He wanted to tell his friend that he didn't have to wear his cheerful mask around Bilbo, and that he was there for him; He supposed that's why he came to the shire in the first place. He just didn't know how to say it.  
Bilbo was pulled out of his thoughts by the kettle whistling, and he poured two cups: one for Bofur and one for him.  
Grabbing Bofur's pipe on the way back, Bilbo walked past the kitchen and our to the door, holding it open and gesturing invitingly.  
"Come " said he. "Let's get some fresh air."  
Bofur shrugged. "Might as well. It's rather lovely out there." And he followed Bilbo out onto the porch.  
Going out in the open of the shire with Bofur was always an interesting experience. Being a dwarf, he stuck out like a sore thumb, and attracted many odd looks and questions from inquisitive hobbits.  
Bofur thought it hilarious of course, and took it all in good humor and charm. He was well liked by many, even if they refused to show it. He knew, and he thought it most amusing to torment them.  
it's actually become a pastime of his, and Bilbo knew it would do the lad some good to get up to some mischief.  
'Huh. Mischief..' He wondered, puffing thoughtfully at his pipe as he watched Bofur harass the approaching Sack-ville Baggins.  
He wondered what kind of a drunk Bofur was. He had never really drank much around the company- well, that's not to say he didn't drink with them, he did. He loved a pint of ale with his lads. But he was never one to get wasted or blithering drunk. He liked to keep his wits about him and didn't fancy the idea of a hangover.  
Bilbo made up his mind just as Bofur scared the old bat away with his rough humor and settled back in his chair laughing not so quietly.  
Bilbo chuckled along with him. He loved it when Bofur was happy. He wanted to see that easy smile on his face all the time. It made Bofur look twenty years younger.  
There wasn't much he wouldn't do to see him happy again.  
And he wasn't afraid to use alcohol to help him do it.  
'Yes', he thought as he puffed at his pipe and watched Bofur's smile fade. 'Tonight. This ends tonight.'  
Of course he wasn't naive enough to think he could take all his heartache and pain and grief away in one night, no.  
But he had to start somewhere, and it was about time for Bofur to start to heal.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Bilbo walked down to his wine cellar with an air of determination. He wanted to see Bofur better, but he would never want to see him hurting.  
But, he thought, with a finalizing nod of his head, you had to hurt before you could begin to heal, as his father used to say.  
So without another doubt, he grabbed his oldest and strongest bottle of ale, and marched back to his sitting rooms with a determined nod.  
Bofur had sort of taken a seat on Bilbo's couch as his own, and he sat there every evening after he and Bilbo ate supper (which they took turns making).  
Today was no different, and Bilbo appeared in the room to see him there in his spot on the far left side of his couch, smoking thoughtfully on his pipe. Bilbo would go so far as to say he was brooding.  
A not uncommon occurrence nowadays.  
He pursed his lips, and veered off towards the kitchen. He snatched two wine glasses (a pint mug for Bofur), and headed back to the rooms. With one in each hand and the bottle in his arms.  
"Here," he said, handing the pint mug to Bofur. "I thought we could have a drink."  
His companion seemed to think for a moment, giving him a semi suspicious look, before shrugging. He wasn't one to be distrustful, and even if he did suspect something other than lovely intentions of drinking with friends, he didn't seem to care very much, if the way he almost chugged his first round was anything to go by.  
Bilbo didn't mind though, he was well used to dwarvish drinking.  
He himself took a small sip, and emptied the rest in a nearby potted plant.

"And then I said, /hiccup/ son, if you're going to play in Erebor, you've got to have a fiddle in the band."  
As the night went on, Bofur's accent got more and more prominent, and his jokes got worse and worse. Bilbo pretended to laugh, but his jokes were just not funny.  
In all honesty, he was beginning to see progress. Bofur's mask was slipping. He worked hard to hide it, but his act was getting very forced.  
After a while, it seemed that Bofur just gave up on attempting to be good company, and he tried to retreat.  
"Ooh, oh. Ya know what? I'm going to bed. Thanks for a right lovely time, Burblo Biggins." He said in a drunken slur, and stood up to go. Bilbo didn't have the heart to make him stay, so he just sighed and patted his back as he went.  
Bofur stumbled off to the bathroom, mask now obviously slipping off his face. Bilbo winced at the look he saw before the dwarf disappeared down the hall.  
'What the hell am I doing...this isn't working at all...,' Bilbo thought, and he took a large swig of his ale; disgusted at himself.  
A crash down the hallway startled him from his thoughts, and he had to run down the hall.  
The bathroom door was open, and he stepped inside to see a wreckage like he had never seen in a hobbit hole before. Bilbo's gorgeous mirror was cracked and broken, and shards were scattered all over the floor.  
Among the shards against the wall sat Bofur, with his head in his bloody hands, shoulders shaking slightly.  
Bilbo stepped over the glass to sit by his friend, rubbing his back gently.  
Bofur was in a right state, sobbing drily into his hands while squeezing his eyes closed, digging his bloody fingers into his eyes, and rocking.  
"I will not cry for them" he muttered, shaking his head in denial.  
It broke Bilbo's heart.  
What had even happened down there to have broken his walls so?  
"I will not, I will not." Said Bofur, and he leaned unconsciously into Bilbo's touch, who wrapped his arms around Bofur's trembling torso.  
"I can't!" He cried, as if arguing with someone. "I have to be alright for them!" He said, and Bilbo began to understand as his muttering a of "I have to be alright" continued.  
He looked sadly down at his friend, still lost in his own world of pain, and he crouched down to him, kneeling close to his shaggy head (for his hat was discarded near the front of the room in the corner).  
"You don't have to be brave" he said, low enough so Bofur could hear him. "Not for me."  
Bofur raised his head to look at the Hobbit, and a single tear trickled down his eye, until it was followed by another and another.  
The sobbing overtook him, and he bowed his head as tears streamed down his face.  
Blindly he reached for Bilbo, clinging to his shirt and burying his face in the hobit's chest. Bilbo didn't mind though, and he held him there, trying his best to give him comfort.  
He would do anything for Bofur to be happy again.

Bofur awoke the next morning in the guest bedroom at Bag End with bandaged hands he could not remember hurting.  
Confused, he unwrapped one, wincing in pain as it chaffed against his skin. When he managed to undo the wrappings without much pain, he found it rather badly scratched and scraped and battered rather badly, but clean.  
A curse called out through the house, and Bofur looked up with a wince. He had such a nasty hangover.  
"What in the name of stone..." Bofur muttered, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing gingerly. Apparantly his feet were in ruins too.  
He wanders around the house aimlessly for a little while, trying to find the source of the cursing and clashing.  
Apparently Bilbo had broken out the alcohol last night, thought Bofur, eyeing the bottles and the glasses on the sitting table. He crossed his arms and chewed the inside of his cheek disapprovingly.  
"What the hell were you thinkin', Bofur lad?" He muttered to himself, turning away and rubbing his forehead.  
"Ow!" Exclaimed a voice down the hall, followed by an oath. Bofur turned down it to investigate, a slight feeling of foreboding in his chest.  
The bathroom was a wreck. Bofur leaned into the room curiously to see Bilbo on the floor in front of a large broken mirror with his back to the door, with bits of glass scattered all throughout the room around him.  
The poor hobbit was trying to paste the shards back in the mirror.  
Looking around the small room, suddenly his head twinges, and it all comes back to him. Everything he did last night, and everything he said.  
He turned away from the scene and slid down the wall to sit by the door with his head in his hands, words and scenes still flying behind his eyes.  
Suddenly the moving stopped inside the room, and the hobbit poked his head around the corner.  
"Good morning," said Bilbo kindly, his voice pitched soft so as not to disturb Bofur's sore head.  
"Hello" he said gruffly in return. He was surprised at how sore and gravelly his voice sounded. Then again, he spent half the night crying.  
He looked away in shame at the memory, and Bilbo ducked back into the bathroom, nodding knowingly.  
"There's still some breakfast on the table, if you want any."  
Bofur stood, grumbling "You didn't have to do that", but Bilbo was having none of it and shushed him.  
Bofur repressed a smile at the hobbit's insisting, but poked his head back in the room.  
"I'll bring back a plate and give you a hand with that."  
Bilbo shook his head. "You don't have to do that, no!"  
But Bofur was already on his way to the kitchen and was having none of it.  
He came back awhile later with the plate, and the two sat in silence for a while, picking up pieces and pasting them back to the mirror, which already didn't look all that bad.  
After a while Bofur cleared his throat.  
"Thanks, you know. For everything."  
Bilbo looked up at him and smiled. "Any time you need."

Five years later.

"UNCLE BOFUR UNCLE BOFUR WAKE UP!"  
Bofur was jerked from sleep by the excited antics of a young Frodo Baggins, all dimples and dark curls and manic energy, thought Bofur as Frodo jumped up and down on his bed.  
"Ah, what in the name of stone are you doin'?" Bofur asked, catching the lad under his arms and holding him where he wasn't digging his feet into Bofur's body.  
Frodo shook his head and pursed his lips, young eyes gleaming.  
Bofur pretended to think dastardly thoughts for a moment, and then began to tickle Frodo under his arms with no (actually a lot) of mercy. "Uncle Bilbo told me to!" The lad screeched, and he mock collapsed back onto his bed as the offender appeared in the doorway.  
"Oh, you two are always plotting against me!"  
Frodo giggled and rolled off the side of the bed, thumping on the floor before popping up and fleeing the room in a whirl of laughter.  
Bofur smiled fondly after him, and his eyes floated up to the man at the door, who walked in a moment later and collapsed on the bed beside him.  
"We'll, We couldn't have you sleeping the day away."  
Bofur wrapped his arms around him and pretended to burro back into the bed, cuddling Bilbo close, but Bilbo smacked him in the head and wriggled away, laughing.  
"Come on, lazy!"  
"Alright, alright." Bofur muttered with a fond smile as he threw the blankets off and padded away, sticking his hat firmly on his head and grumbling about the hobbits he loved.


End file.
